It was a sleepy, foggy day out on the streets of London. The kind that forebodes any outings and makes you feel lethargic at best. It was also the kind that helped along any bleakness Holmes found within himself.
The two of us where reclining by the fireplace, Holmes lounging with his head in my lap upon the oriental rug; as I read the daily news. He had a far off look in his eyes as he dozed lucidly, his sharp eyes reflecting the flames which held is attentions.
"Have you ever hated, and loved your life?" Holmes said, unmoving.
"Pardon?" Said I, looking up from the paper. Holmes cleared his throat softly.
"Have you ever hated and loved your life? At the same time I mean." I folded the paper and placed on the ground to better grant Holmes my attentions.
"I suppose on occasion, why pray tell?"
"Nothing, it is just how I find myself as of late." He said, sitting up with his back to me, hugging his knees.
"What has you feeling this way?" I asked, gaining a look from Holmes at the mention of the "f" word. Holmes sighed.
"Well, in general there is nothing to complain about. I am pleased with where I am, I have done well for myself." Holmes spoke simply. "However, I hate my anti-social tendencies, the idea that I am not as clever as I intended to be, and the fact that the law hinders me."
I knew he was also talking about us at the end there and it was unfair, but it is what it is. There was not much either of us could do about that. I still hated seeing him in such a manner, in a way I guess I was thankful that he was sharing these thoughts with me; before he would just internalize it and wash it away with the 7% solution of his.
I cleared my thoughts and reached out my hand to rub his back soothingly.
"Would you really want to be settled down, right now, Sherlock?" I asked him.
"No, I suppose not. It is so awfully commonplace, come to think of it." He sat for a moment entertaining the idea. "I suppose I should just be happy, but I cannot help the loneliness, even though logically I know I am not alone."

I should not have left him alone. In retrospect I should have realized that, but there is no racking myself up now. I did not really know too much about his past except those little grains that he happened to divulge every so often. I still should have recalled how he said that he used to mope around his rooms when he was younger, if I was more astute that probably would have been a clue.
It was not that he wanted a flat mate it's more that he needed one. I, now, figure the loneliness of his idle time drove him more to his escape than the mere absents of cases. Left alone with himself he paced in front of the fireplace and made up crazy experiments and lay about in drug induced lethargy.
Holmes some how liked these periods, though he would never likely admit it. It is well true that he was happiest and most himself when the game was afoot, but I could tell that apart of him enjoyed these lapses.
He liked being taken care of, and these moments when left to his own devices he would push the envelope of those who cared for him. I must say that while Holmes may not have many friends, it is not because he can not make them. He actually can be quite deft in the art of turning acquaintances into friends, it is the follow threw that he lacks. Nothing he does is ever truly done out of dislike or cruelty, it is just how he is. I did not mind at first and Mrs. Hudson, further enabled him, but that was just her mothering nature. This time, however, was different. I must admit this was the final straw.
That is why I left. It was a lot harder than I thought it would have been; and as I pounded my way down Baker street my mind traveled back to the rooms where Holmes was left. Only the good lord himself would know what he would do, but I had no choice. I am not his wife and certainly not his mother, though I do pity the poor woman who bore him, rest her soul. If I could have been a fly on the wall for Holmes' youth it may have shed more insight into him, even though I knew more then most.
Alas only Mycroft held that insight, but has no cypher in which to code it.

I wonder about what I am doing and
why I am forced to deal with my humanity when all it does is hinder me.
Is this innate sense worth coming to terms with;
does it make one better, is it the answer to all the sleepless nights,
the minor addictions, these thoughts that rack my brain,
the insatiable hunger that transcends the mere consumption of food.
I am not alone.
Or am I...
It is hard to make out, this simple scribble
that has morphed into writing and concern.
The thought that starts and lives and burns
only to die just as quickly. Snuffed out by a rip and a crumple, and shuffled away into the bin of time.
The world is littered with dead ideas.
I horde, mine.
Un-crumpled and filed to bare witness to this existence, as brief and devoid as it may be.
I imagine this inhumanity, is just simply apart of me.